


An intimate remedy

by myn_x



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Editor!Bokuto, Editor/Masseur AU, M/M, Massage Therapist!Kuroo, Minor Original Female Character(s), Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-07-28 14:09:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7643917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myn_x/pseuds/myn_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bokuto Koutarou is the high-strung copy editor of his university's newspaper. When Akaashi Keiji, his editor in chief, recommends a massage, unpleasant memories seem to make matters worse.</p><p>Kuroo Tetsurou is Namaste Massage Therapy's new pride and joy. He may or may not be ambidextrous.</p><div class="center">
  <p>~</p>
</div>Bokuto had been ignoring it, but he ached. And it was a type of ache that Kuroo couldn’t get at with just his hands. Or could he?<div class="center">
  <p>****PLEASE NOTE****</p>
</div>this fic has been restructured into smaller chapters. the latest chapter (chapter 6) went up on 17 feb.
            </blockquote>





	1. Impulse

“WHY the fuck is there a comma right here? Why. That’s a goddamn comma splice. And that’s NOT how you use a fucking semicolon.”

Bokuto scowled, deleted one of several unnecessary commas, and replaced the errant semicolon with a period. With each edit—and there were far too many—he huffed and mumbled about how dumb this particular writer was. Not that any of the others were any better. He ran a hand through his spiked hair, his leg bouncing impatiently against the desk.

Bokuto was just loud enough for everyone in the room to hear that he was complaining, but all they could make out were the expletives. Across the room, Yachi, the recent hire, blushed at his coarseness and stopped typing.

She took a breath and stammered, “W-What happened?”

“Nothing,” Bokuto said, with an absent wave of his hand. He had lightened his tone so as not to further put off the new arts and entertainment section editor; she was jumpy and self-conscious, which had everyone else on edge in turn. They had gone on long enough short-staffed, and Bokuto was grateful that his load was a tad lighter, thanks to the skittish girl.

But he’d reached his patience threshold.

He continued to curse at the computer screen. “Hey, Akaashi? I have a question.” He spoke without taking his eyes off the computer screen, continuing to edit while he waited for an answer. His leg was practically vibrating.

The disembodied reply came from behind a stack of papers—which should have been archived weeks ago—a few seconds later. “Yes, Bokuto-san?”

“Why do we let imbeciles write for the paper?” Bokuto asked innocently. His golden eyes scanned the document and found countless more errors by the time Akaashi replied.

“We take what we can get, and the more students who write for the paper, the more likely other students are to read it.” Akaashi sounded as if he were reading from a script.

Bokuto shook his head at Akaashi’s detached tone and quipped, “Well, it doesn’t make any sense if I just have to fucking rewrite everything, which, I might add, is NOT in my job description.”

With every edit, Bokuto became more wound up. Even without peeking around the stack, Akaashi could see the smile, the one that meant Bokuto would go off the deep end if he didn’t step in. It made his mouth sharp and chilled his demeanor to an icy hardness, replacing his usual warm energy with something cold to the touch.

Sighing, he got up, tugged Bokuto away from his his desk, and rolled him out of the office, chair and all.

 

\---

 

Sitting on his rolling chair, with his arms crossed and his lips pressed into a pout, Bokuto looked about five years younger.

A few minutes earlier Bokuto had latched onto the office door jamb as Akaashi attempted to wheel Bokuto away from innocent, listening ears.

“Hey--?!” Bokuto spluttered a string of curses that Akaashi pointedly ignored.

Yachi stood up, a panicked look on her face as she got her first taste of one of Bokuto’s full-on tantrums. Akaashi, used to Bokuto’s violent mood swings, patiently waited for his stubbornness to subside, which didn’t take long. Bokuto crossed his arms and scrunched up his face, and Akaashi rolled him to the break room without further complaint.

Akaashi hadn’t said anything on the short trip the smaller, empty room. After he shut the door and slid the lock into place he gave his second-in-command a once-over, noting the deep wrinkle between his eyebrows, the tense set of his shoulders, the way his leg hadn’t stopped bouncing. He saw Bokuto’s jaw clench and knew he needed to tread lightly.

As his best friend Akaashi knew where to find the signs that Bokuto was cracking under pressure, but he could still get swept up in the collateral damage. He knew that from picking up the pieces, and not once or twice.

“Bokuto-san, when was the last time you had a massage?” he asked.

“Why, are you offering?” Bokuto replied, his quiet voice dripping with honey. A deception, for sure.

Akaashi knew better than to think Bokuto was flirting. This was copy editor Bokuto who’d had enough. Not the boisterous, carefree Bokuto he knew, who only existed outside of the office.

“I think you could use some de-stressing,” Akaashi continued, as if Bokuto hadn’t spoken. “Everyone in the office knows you do the work of around three or four people and in half the time. While you complain every step of the way, you’re really the one who makes the paper as good as it is, regardless of who actually reads it.”

Bokuto looked at Akaashi with raised eyebrows, as if to say, _Stop. Talking. Now._

“You make my job easier, our jobs easier, and I want to make sure you’re not losing yourself in the process.”

Nothing but hard, golden eyes. A smirk replaced the pout.

“Why did you stop going to your massage therapist? I thought you liked her.”

Bokuto’s silence was deafening.

“I’m calling Akane to get you scheduled.”

The smirk slipped from Bokuto’s face, and his leg finally stilled. Bokuto saw the flash of a white smile, a flip of auburn hair, felt delicate but strong hands slide up his back. Sighing, he squeezed his eyes shut and let his arms fall to his sides.

“Alright then, you have my attention,” Bokuto said. His eyes lost their hard cast. “But, please, for the love of all that is sacred in this world, don’t call Akane.”

“Am I at least allowed to ask why?” Akaashi asked. “You never told me why you stopped seeing her. Massages too good?”

“Fuck,” Bokuto groaned, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. “Listen, it’s not good to develop feelings for your massage therapist. And that’s all I’m going to say.”

Akaashi paused, then said, “And what? Did you make a move? I’m guessing your charm fell flat.”

Bokuto didn’t answer immediately. He wanted to go back to the office, to the sorry excuse of an article he’d been editing, if only to maintain the illusion of control that came with fixing people’s poor grammar. He didn’t want to have this conversation, but Akaashi’s sincere expression softened his stubborn will.

“It’s been months, Akaashi, months since I’ve even thought of Akane and now you bring her up and it’s like no time has passed. I don’t even know if she’s still working at the massage place.”

In truth, once Bokuto left, he hadn’t looked back, nor had he let himself entertain any thoughts of Akane, all to protect his fragile ego and even more fragile heart.

“I still think you should go. I’ve never seen you this tense, and at least when you were seeing her, you didn’t let work get to you like this.” Akaashi was leaning against the break room countertop, his tan arms folded much as Bokuto’s had been. But where Bokuto had been tense, Akaashi was the picture of relaxation—yet his tone was serious. “You were more grounded back then.”

“Yeah.” Bokuto’s voice was gruff. The few months he had been going to Akane’s little room at Namaste Massage Therapy, his mood swings had been more spaced out, his demeanor only souring when he had to edit a particularly awful article. “My last appointment was in March, and it’s now what? July? Four months… She probably thinks I dropped off the face of the earth, which is exactly how I want to keep it.”

“Just let me handle it, you tool,” Akaashi said, walking forward. He was right in front of Bokuto, who looked up at him with an unguarded look on his face, one that contrasted sharply with his icy glare from a few moments prior.

Bokuto still wasn’t used to how attractive Akaashi was, even after nearly ten years of friendship. He was all edges: a sharp chin that softened into a jawline dusted with scruff, then angular cheekbones and dark, tapered brows. His heavy-lidded, grey-blue eyes met his gold evenly. Angels must have tousled his nearly jet black hair, which fell in short, artlessly messy waves. Straight, thin nose, full lips—even as expressionless as he usually was, Akaashi was really fucking pretty. 

Bending over, Akaashi reached around and filched Bokuto’s phone from the back pocket of his jeans. Bokuto didn’t react, didn’t fight Akaashi, didn’t have the energy to snatch his phone back before his friend punched in the security code and flicked through his contact list. After fishing his own phone out of his pocket, Akaashi typed in Akane’s number, still stored in Bokuto’s phone.

“Figures,” he muttered when he was done. “I had no idea you were this pathetic.”

“Shut up,” was Bokuto’s halfhearted reply. He slumped further down in the chair, feeling almost relieved. Although he was a year older, Bokuto was usually content with letting Akaashi iron out the kinks in his life. Even if it meant enduring his relentless honesty.

 


	2. Namaste

Akaashi sent Bokuto home—”No arguing. Nope, I don’t want to hear it, Bokuto-san!”—for the rest of the day, so he stopped to get some tea before going to his apartment.

Once he was inside his room, he let his guard down entirely, tossing the shopping bag on a small table and stretching his arms behind his head. Grateful for solitude, he booted up his laptop, turned on the kettle, and wiggled out of his jeans. He threw them on the small couch in the living room half of the room.

While waiting for the water to boil, he found an old movie to watch; he was always in the mood for corny, lame-joke cinema, and he figured that mindlessness was better than thinking about _her_.

Once the water was boiling, he was methodical in taking out his favorite owl-shaped mug, placing an Earl Grey tea bag in the bottom, measuring out three teaspoons of brown sugar, pouring the scalding water to exactly two-thirds of the mug, and adding a dash of condensed milk. After he stirred, he brought the mug to his nose, letting the scented steam envelope him, his muscles relaxing, his breaths evening…

He jolted, almost spilling the tea, the smell of jasmine incense polluting his thoughts. The onslaught of memories from earlier, then, was not over. Like he’d told Akaashi, he hadn’t thought about Akane in months, yet all his senses were firing as if he’d seen her the day before, like phantom visions come to tease and haunt him. His frustration was peaking; _damn_ Akaashi for bringing this up. And damn himself for being this weak.

Abandoning the tea, he scooped up his laptop and opened a new tab. His face was hard and determined; there was nothing to lose by _looking_ , right? He sat with his hands hovering over the keyboard, his hesitation belying whatever false sense of confidence he’d garnered.

 _I had no idea you were this pathetic_. As always, Akaashi’s words made him realize how ridiculous he was being. He typed “Namaste Massage Therapy” and clicked on the first link that popped up. The minimalist homepage was different than Bokuto remembered, but it was easy to find the link to a detailed list of the clinic’s licensed massage therapists.

He was still shocked, and a little relieved, when Akane’s name and portrait wasn’t on the list, even though she had told him—with oiled hands rolling up and down his naked back—that her employment there was only temporary while she planned her move. She wanted to be closer to her parents, she’d said.

 _What if I said I wanted to be closer to you?_ he’d almost said. He cringed, glad that he’d held his tongue for once. That had been his last session with her. It began like how every session began, with Akane asking how Bokuto had been since he last saw her, whether he’d felt any more or less tense, what muscles felt better or worse than before, where he’d like her to work on, if he wanted to try a different incense than her favorite—jasmine. To the latter question, he’d answered no, like always.

When the massage began, she’d started on his neck, which was sore from how he’d slept the night before. Akane was always chiding Bokuto on how important body alignment was while one was sleeping, but Bokuto was an incurably restless sleeper, so no matter how much he fluffed his pillow, he woke up stiff, blankets twisted and sometimes on the floor. He tried everything from memory foam pillows to heating pads, but nothing worked quite as well as Akane’s slender, firm, oiled hands.

Bokuto was annoyed at his own disappointment at seeing that Akane had moved on—moved on as much as he apparently hadn’t. And he’d been on plenty of dates since then, with both guys and girls, that mostly ended with no-strings-attached forays that he’d forget as soon as he’d wake up in the morning, the tousled sheets beside him cold and long-abandoned.

He picked up his phone to call Akaashi and tell him not to bother with the whole massage thing, but it buzzed before he could even unlock it. A phone call from none other than Akaashi.

“I was about to call you,” Bokuto said without preamble, thinking about how creepy it was that they always seemed to call or text each other just as the other picked up his phone to do the same.

“I know—you can’t go a few hours without talking to me. It’s the curse of the perpetually lonely. I don’t know how you sleep,” was Akaashi’s dry reply.

“Ease up on the sass,” Bokuto said with a smile. “I only called you to tell you that Akane doesn’t work at Namaste anymore, so there’s no need to try and schedule me.”

“Oh, well, I already spoke to her and found that out, but I called Namaste anyway and scheduled you with one of the other therapists.” Akaashi didn’t sound upset; rather, he sounded pleased with himself. “Why? Because your filthy mouth is too much for me to handle right now, and I don’t want the newbie quitting.”

Bokuto thought about the deer-in-the-headlights look on Yachi’s face as she watched Akaashi tow him out the office. He felt kinda bad, but then again, he didn’t really care what people thought of him. Still, Yachi cut his work nearly in half, as he was both copy editor and in charge of arts and entertainment before Akaashi hired her. He knew he'd need to apologize to the poor girl, bring her some flowers or something.

He clicked his tongue and said, “I dislike your salty, high-and-mighty tone, Keiji… Who did you schedule me with then? And shouldn’t you have asked me first?”

“I don’t remember the guy’s name, but, apparently, he just started and he’s already known as the Namaste’s god of massage. I did some snooping, and they say he could turn diamond into putty, so I guess you’re in pretty good hands.” Bokuto could hear the smirk plastered on Akaashi’s face. “Figuratively and literally.”

“Okay, then. A guy, huh?” Akane all but forgotten, Bokuto found Akaashi’s presumptive attitude more irritating than whatever lingering affection he had for his old masseuse.

Akaashi was practically gloating, “I only want the best for you, and he’s the best they have to offer.”

“Fucker,” Bokuto said, ending the call.

Less than a minute later, his phone buzzed again—this time, a text message.

“tomorrow, 5:30, dont be late.”

 

\---

 

Bokuto heard the familiar sound of a deer scare as he walked the stone path toward Namaste Massage Therapy, which looked like a crystal accordion with its almost entirely glass exterior.

As often as he had been going to Namaste—at least twice a month, which was only affordable because Akaashi put ads for the massage clinic in the paper—Bokuto was still nervous when he walked through the glass doors.

It was evening and the glass was tinted, so the lobby was dim. Warm, ambient lights were spaced along the baseboard, sending shafts of gold and azure toward the high ceiling. Bokuto heard moving water and saw that a mossy rock waterfall had replaced a large section of the wall to his left. The sweet combination of incense and candles, along with the cascading water, had a calming effect; Bokuto became slightly less tense as he approached the unattended front desk.

“And look what the cat dragged in,” a voice drawled from Bokuto’s right.

Turning, he was glad to see someone he knew. Oikawa Tooru, a relative of the clinic’s owners. Oikawa was an asset to Namaste, reeling in plenty of (female) patrons with his faultlessly good looks and dashing personality, to the chagrin of his possible-lover Iwaizumi, if rumors were anything to go by, who was also one of Namaste’s more popular masseurs.

The young clinic manager had an open face and intelligent brown eyes, and his chestnut hair fell in sweeps across his forehead. He was wearing all black: an expensive fitted polo, expensive pants, and expensive loafers.

“It’s the regular-turned-ghost,” Oikawa said with a bright smile.

“Hey, Tooru,” Bokuto said. He continued nervously before Oikawa could pepper him with questions about why he stopped coming. “I have a 5:30? Akaashi scheduled for me, so I don’t know who it’s with.”

Intentionally courteous or not, Oikawa didn’t mention Akane or pry, but his eyes glittered. “Yes, you got lucky. Kuroo was the only one available on short notice, so I’d say very lucky. Everyone else has gone home for the day.”

Bokuto vaguely remembered seeing the name on the website the night before, but he hadn’t paid too much attention to the portraits, only noticing that Akane’s wasn’t there. He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he kept quiet. He wondered if Oikawa had put two and two together and realized that he’d disappeared right after Akane announced her plans.

Oikawa, taking the not-so-subtle hint, gestured for him to follow him to a door that led to the rest of the building, where the massage therapists worked in their private rooms. Each had a distinct style and decor, but the walls of every cave-like room were made of a special noise-cancelling stone to help patrons block out the distractions of the outside world.

Remembering how his head used to swim pleasantly with the light smell of jasmine incense, Bokuto thought about Akane’s niche at Namaste, lit with rows of unscented candles. She, unlike other massage therapists, did not play music while she worked. Bokuto was glad for the silence; the quiet sound of Akane’s breath as it tickled his neck and sent pleasant chills across his skin that had nothing—or everything—to do with the massage.

The memory made Bokuto shiver and he mentally scolded himself. He was here to let everything go, and that included work and his recent and unwanted resurrection of feelings for Akane—which was mainly Akaashi’s fault.

The hallway was lit with more ambient lights, this time reddish-purple. Oikawa led him to one of the last doors in the corridor; it was made of a heavy wood, also noise-cancelling, and it stood ajar. Bokuto could see that the room was dimmer than Akane’s had been, and he guessed this Kuroo person didn’t like to burn a lot of candles.

Bokuto heard someone—probably Iwaizumi—yell, “Oi, Shittykawa!” closer to the front of the building. Oikawa had said everyone had gone home, but apparently that wasn’t the case.

“Go on in,” Oikawa said, winking. Then he ambled toward the spiky head sticking out of one of the other rooms, leaving Bokuto to turn back to the door.

Swallowing, he pushed it open and took a few tentative steps inside. The room was darker than he’d anticipated; there were maybe nine, no, ten, thick candles lit, with half of the overheard lights set to dim. Even with the flames and ceiling lights, the room was mostly cast in shadow. A type of incense that he couldn’t place was burning. Still, he found himself relaxing, much as he had done every time he stepped into Akane’s room.

The dark figure leaning against the back counter chased and scattered his thoughts of Akane to dusty, untouched crevices of his mind. So this was Kuroo, then. He looked as tall as Bokuto was, give or take an inch, and was slimmer than he was, especially across the shoulders. But Kuroo was by no means slight; he had the physique of a swimmer, or perhaps he’d make a good volleyball player. His arms were muscular, as was his chest, which was obvious because of the way his shirt hugged every toned line of his upper body. His hair was short, black, and chaotic, a fringe of midnight obscuring part of the right side of his face.

“Have a seat,” Kuroo purred, slinking forward.

Bokuto edged toward the middle of the room where the massage table and a lamp, switched off, waited. Facing away from the table, he leaned back and pushed himself up as Kuroo pulled a rolling chair out of nowhere and rolled it a few paces away. The masseuse sat down, leaned forward, and tented his fingers.

Now that Kuroo was closer, Bokuto could make out more of his features.

Kuroo hadn’t looked anywhere but at Bokuto since he’d entered the room. Now, gold gazed into brown. Kuroo’s sly, slanted eyes had slit pupils, and combined with a short pointed nose and a sharp, devilish smile, he had the look of large, lanky cat, perhaps a leopard. He was young, probably around Bokuto’s age, and Bokuto wondered how he’d gotten his license so fast.

Head slightly tilted, gaze intent on Bokuto’s face, Kuroo said, “You keep all your tension in your neck and shoulders, even while you sleep, and speaking of sleep, you don’t use a pillow because you’re too busy tossing and turning and doing other acrobatic shit.” He paused, his eyes narrowing, and continued, “You sit in an office chair, a rolling one like this”—he rolled back and forth for emphasis—“for several hours a day. I’m Kuroo, very pleased to meet you.”

Bokuto stared at Kuroo, whose unorthodox method of patient assessment caught him off guard, so much so that he forgot to respond for a few seconds.

“Um, you’re right about all that. Bokuto Koutarou,” he finally replied.

“Of course I’m right,” Kuroo said. “I could tell all of that as soon as you stepped foot in this room.”

“Usually, massage therapists ask questions instead of making assumptions,” Bokuto snapped, the surprise finally wearing off. He hated that people could read him so easily. “The room’s practically pitch black, so how could you have known? Unless Akaashi told Oikawa when he scheduled, and you heard from him…” Bokuto stopped, suddenly aware that he was rambling.

“Easy. They aren’t assumptions if they’re correct. I’m a trained professional who happens to be good at knowing what’s wrong with someone, whether it’s physiological or behavioral.” Kuroo’s tone was playful. “Now, since you want me to ask questions, what can I do for you today, Bokuto?”


	3. Playing with fire

As Kuroo left the room to let Bokuto undress, he grinned.

They were both guys, and Kuroo would see him in his underwear when he came back in, so Bokuto didn’t see why he needed to leave. _But protocol is protocol, I guess._

Kuroo’s sly smile had made Bokuto’s stomach flip, and he cursed Akaashi, who seemed to be the root of all his problems as of late. He was _so_ going to get an earful.

A few minutes later, Kuroo reentered, and he stopped to take in an almost-naked Bokuto.

Bokuto had stripped down to his plaid boxers, conceitedly admiring the planes of his abs, the way his arms flexed when he moved, as he did so. He wasn’t obscenely muscular, but the hours he spent at the gym every week spoke for themselves.

The contrast of his golden eyes and the silver and black of his hair, Bokuto thought, was off-putting, and at the very least intriguing, to most; perhaps he could attribute that to the intensity of Kuroo’s stare.

Kuroo tore his gaze away and rummaged in a cabinet, taking out two bottles. He snatched a remote off the back counter and pressed a button and the sound of waves crashed peacefully through the room.

When Kuroo was close enough to touch, his hands caught Bokuto’s attention. His fingers were long and elegant, palms wide and supple. Fine muscles etched the backs of his hands.

“Alright, lie down,” Kuroo said, his first words since he’d come back into the room. Bokuto obliged, sticking his face into the aromatherapeutic towels wrapped around the head rest. Kuroo placed another warm towel across the lower half of his body so he would only be exposed from the back up.

He heard Kuroo flick on the lamp, and he let himself wonder about the deified masseur’s reputation. Thinking of his hands, Bokuto found himself yearning, imagining what they’d feel like as they kneaded the kinks in his neck, shoulders, and back until they dissolved.

He felt something cold and wet on his neck and he tensed, knowing Kuroo had begun. At Kuroo’s touch, his stomach flipped again; he was expecting more cold, but Kuroo’s hands were warm and soft and his strokes were strong but gentle as he worked the cool, minty gel into Bokuto’s neck.

“Relax.” Kuroo’s voice vibrated in his ear, so much like a cat’s purr, and it lulled Bokuto. He hadn’t even been aware of the pain in his neck until Kuroo pointed it out, and now he was erasing it with his thumbs as he traced circles where his neck met his shoulders.

“Is that the right spot?” Kuroo asked. When Bokuto grunted an affirmation, he clucked his tongue and said, “Thought so.”

Bokuto could feel himself melting; tension rolled off his body with every touch of Kuroo’s palms and fingers.

Before he continued, Kuroo wiped his hands off on a towel. Bokuto had turned his face to the side, and he was now level with Kuroo’s waist. As Kuroo stretched his arms, his shirt rode up, exposing the flat of his lower stomach. Twin grooves dipped and disappeared into his pants, which hung low on his hips. Bokuto flushed and heat pooled in his stomach.

Kuroo picked up the other bottle and poured a dark amber oil into the palm of his hand. “You’ll have to tell me where the spots are in your shoulders and back.”

The oil very nearly matched the color of his eyes.

“Gotcha,” Bokuto muttered.

Kuroo bent over and kneaded the oil into Bokuto’s shoulders. His hands were hot now, probably because of the oil, and Bokuto didn’t know if it was the sound of the waves or the scent of the unknown incense or the darkness of the room or the flicker of the candles, but for what felt like the very first time, his mind was blank, devoid of everything except for the spicy scent of the oil and the gliding sensation of Kuroo’s hands on his upper back.

His knuckles brushed against a burst of tenderness, and Bokuto gasped, “There, right there—” and Kuroo applied a gentler pressure, the rhythm of his strokes slowing; he kneaded until Bokuto no longer felt pain, and he continued to the next spot, which Bokuto identified with a quiet, “Fuck.”

Five or so sore spots later, Kuroo was at Bokuto’s lower back. Everything was slick. His stomach tightened. This is a massage, and Kuroo is a professional. This is a massage, and Kuroo is a professional, Bokuto thought.

_Koutarou, what the entire fuck, haven’t you learned, it’s only been one session, no, not even a session, it’s not over yet, I don’t want to to be over—_

“Ouch,” he said hoarsely. Kuroo brushed against a knot of pain at the sensitive patch of skin just above the waistband of Bokuto's boxers. Kuroo paused, as if waiting for permission.

“Go… Ahead?” Bokuto asked rather than said. He might as well get as much out of this as he could.

Kuroo didn’t say anything, but his hands whispered along Bokuto’s lower back, coaxing the pain away. Using his thumbs again, he kneaded figure-eights into his skin, only stopping to pour more oil. He pressed one palm flush against where the pain flowered, and the heat of his hand sunk deep under Bokuto’s skin.

Bokuto sighed as the very last drop of tension left his body. Kuroo used his other hand to rub the oil into the rest of his back, and Bokuto imagined that he was ambidextrous.

“Where do you work out?” Kuroo’s voice was sudden.

“The gym at my university, and I do some stuff at my flat.” Bokuto was facedown again, so his answer was muffled.

Kuroo slid his hands up Bokuto’s back, pausing briefly at his shoulder blades before grazing his fingertips in a lazy, fiery path down the curve of his spine. Not a massage technique Bokuto was familiar with.

“It’s not often I get to work with someone so toned—” Kuroo kneaded the muscles in his lower back—“so I can’t help but admire you a little bit.”

His hands were dangerously close to the spot he’d just asked permission to touch. Bokuto’s heart was in his ears. He was a puddle and at the mercy of a man who’d thawed him out in less than an hour with just his oil-slicked hands.

When he was seeing Akane, it took at least three sessions to get Bokuto feeling this light and slack. Yet Kuroo’s touch was so tender; he’d applied just the right amount of pressure to release the stiffness in Bokuto’s muscles, leaving him blissfully unwound. But his words were having the opposite effect.

Bokuto’s jaw clicked. “Professional, aren’t we?”

He lifted himself up and rested on his elbows, then he looked back at Kuroo, whose hands had paused but had not moved from Bokuto’s back. Kuroo only stared, a coy smile dancing on his lips. Bokuto willed his pounding heart to slow.

Finally Kuroo said, “You’re not tense anymore, but I can tell you that your heart’s been racing from the moment I touched you. I can feel it.”

As if responding to Kuroo, his heart thrummed faster.

“It’s got nothing to do with you touching me.” Bokuto kept the blush from spreading to his face through sheer force of will, but he could do nothing to still his ridiculous heart—how dare it give him away, and in such an obvious manner.

Kuroo raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Want to talk about the real reason then?”

“Can we just finish?” Bokuto asked. He looked away, not in the mood to deal with a flirtatious masseur, who’d behaved professionally, for the most part, until now. This was different than with Akane, who’s innocent eagerness to soothe never went beyond the impersonal. The only breaches in the otherwise platonic relationship between therapist and client stemmed from the intimacy of the remedy: touch. But to Bokuto, touch had become poison disguised as an antidote.

“Okay, time to pay some attention to those legs,” Kuroo said, laughing. The sound was low and rich.

Bokuto was silent. He’d shoved his head back into the headrest in an attempt to hide how unraveled Kuroo made him, so he couldn’t see Kuroo’s knowing smirk.

Kuroo’s hands skirted Bokuto’s ass, landing on the back of his left thigh. After pouring more oil into the palm of one hand, he began with short, broad strokes that dug deep into the muscle. Bokuto’s legs weren’t sore, but why the hell not? When he’d discussed what he wanted with Kuroo before the message began, his only goal was to relax. He wanted more now, but he wasn’t going to admit that to someone he’d just met.

“I’ve never met someone with as many kinks as you.” Kuroo’s eyes were glowing with innuendo.

“Shut up.”

Kuroo’s strokes picked up in intensity in reaction to the muffled reply. He alternated between the quads and calves of both legs, covering Bokuto from the back of the neck down, minus what the boxers and towel covered, in a thin sheen of oil. He’d tentatively pushed up the edges of Bokuto’s boxers so that’d he’d have proper access to his upper leg.

“It’s technically after hours, you know.” Kuroo’s voice was velvet.

“A-and?” Bokuto hoped his facedown position was enough to hide the shake in his voice.

A few of the candles had gone out, and the room seemed infinitely darker. The sound of waves faded into the rumble of thunder. The new sound effects were relaxing in a way, but they did nothing to calm Bokuto’s nerves; while half of his body was enjoying the feel of Kuroo’s hands, his muscles loose and limber, he could only imagine what it’d feel like for Kuroo’s hands to tease the front of his body.

Kuroo dimmed the lamp and tugged at Bokuto’s underwear beneath the towel. When Bokuto didn’t object, he pulled the boxers down to his ankles, then completely off, twirling them on one finger. Bokuto was completely naked save for the thin white towel, and Kuroo’s eyes lingered appreciatively on the muscled lines of Bokuto’s back, his gaze resting on the curve of his ass beneath the cotton.

“Well, you’ve definitely saved me the trouble of mentally undressing you,” Kuroo purred. “I have a pretty good imagination, but nothing quite beats the real thing.”

Bokuto pushed himself back up onto his elbows and looked at Kuroo, the blush across his cheeks obvious even in the shadows. He’d been ignoring it, but he ached. And it was a type of ache that Kuroo couldn’t get at with just his hands.

Kuroo’s eyes flicked to the arch of Bokuto’s back, at how the muscles of his shoulders shifted and bunched with his movement. Then he locked eyes with gold that shimmered with thinly veiled desire.

“Do you seduce all your clients?” Bokuto’s eyes were steady on Kuroo, whose fingertips were dancing along the small of his back. His heart pounded, and he felt the blush creep to his ears.

“No.” Kuroo’s suggestive smile seemed to say, “Just one with honey-colored eyes, who’s stubborn to the point of ridiculousness and happens to be lying naked and oily on my massage table.”

Kuroo hooked the leg of the rolling chair and pulled it forward. Lifting his arms above his head, he pulled off his shirt and threw it onto the back of his chair. He wasn’t muscular like Bokuto, but he was lithe and trim, just as the cut of his shirt suggested. A hint of black trailed from his abs to the band of his boxers, visible above his low-slung pants.

Bokuto stared as Kuroo pushed the chair away again, his stomach pooling with fire when he leapt up onto the table. Bokuto was still on his stomach, and Kuroo was suspended on hands and knees above him, barely touching him. He leaned forward to brush his lips just under his ear, sending a shockwave of pleasure straight to Bokuto’s groin. Kuroo sat back and began to massage Bokuto’s shoulders with none of the almost-professionalism of earlier. This was pure intimacy. The rhythm of his hands stoked the flames in Bokuto’s belly, burning down a path that led even lower.

Kuroo raked his hands down Bokuto’s back, and Bokuto’s teetering self control snapped. Flipping himself over under Kuroo, he looked up at him with the blistering ache written plainly on his face. He sat up so that Kuroo was between his legs; Kuroo stroked his jaw, and Bokuto wrapped his arms around Kuroo’s neck to bring him forward, his lips craving touch.

When their lips met, Bokuto moaned with relief. He flicked his tongue over Kuroo’s bottom lip, and Kuroo took Bokuto’s between his teeth, nipping playfully. The brief flashes of subtle pain made Bokuto gasp; he pulled away, feeling lips that were tender and swollen with Kuroo’s kisses. Kuroo cupped his face and pulled him forward, and their mouths opened together, their tongues slipping over each other frantically as Bokuto tangled his fingers in Kuroo’s hair and held him close. Kuroo absently ran his hands up and down Bokuto’s chest; his palms were flush and warm against Bokuto’s skin, his lips wet and intense.

Bokuto pulled back to kisses along Kuroo’s jaw, eliciting a contented purr, and Kuroo reciprocated up and down his sensitive neck.

Bokuto could feel the press of Kuroo’s erection through his pants, and he was also throbbing with exposed need. As if sensing his arousal, Kuroo sat back, still between Bokuto’s legs, taking his length in one hand and reaching for a bottle with the other. Kuroo let go long enough to dribble oil into the palm of his hand; he rubbed both hands together and regained his hold, gliding with steady, slow, wet strokes that made Bokuto’s breath heavy and his head swim.

“Fuck,” Bokuto growled.

Kuroo expertise was evidently not limited to the areas he worked with in his profession. His hands, which were sensual enough during the actual massage, were even more so now, his grip firm. While one hand slid up and down Bokuto’s cock, timed so that his thumb slipped over the tip with each upward stroke, his other hand was busy with Bokuto’s chest, thumb lazily teasing at a nipple.

Hot, everything was so hot. Bokuto leaned back on his palms and bent his knees so that his feet were flat on the table, his back arching as he attempted to hold back from rocking his hips in time with Kuroo’s hand, faster. Kuroo pushed Bokuto onto his back, and Bokuto barely had time to gasp before he felt Kuroo’s fingers press against his asshole. He massaged in slow circles, teasing with one probing finger and withdrawing.

“Mmmmm, you, ahh, are fucking ambidextrous,” Bokuto breathed.

“What’s that?” Kuroo’s strokes were faster now, and shorter, and Bokuto started moaning in rhythm with his ministrations. Kuroo bend his head to suck on Bokuto’s inner thigh; he alternated between flicks of the tongue, wet kisses, and soft love bites, and Bokuto grabbed at Kuroo’s head and ran his fingers through his silky black hair.

Kuroo gently pushed one slick finger into Bokuto, hooking it and rubbing back and forth at the entrance. Bokuto’s toes curled and Kuroo pushed deeper into the tight heat, brushing against the spot with deliberate flicks of his finger.

“R-right—there!” Bokuto said, panting. He squirmed and angled himself so that Kuroo slid deeper. He bit the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle his moans, and Kuroo let go to pull Bokuto's hand away.

“I want to hear you.” Kuroo’s finger was still inside, relentlessly teasing, and he brought his hand back around Bokuto’s dick, the pressure and rhythm of his hand bringing him close.

Bokuto was moving with Kuroo, the heat building in his body until he felt he was going to die under the light of a million suns. Kuroo pressed a second finger inside, his strokes gaining momentum, the slickness of the oil on Bokuto’s dick amplifying the pleasure.

“I’m, ah, fuck, I’m going to, fucking—” Bokuto said between gasps— “come!”

Bokuto was saying Kuroo’s name over and over as he tilted over the edge; he was burning up with an incurable fever, his muscles tensing and relaxing. He begged Kuroo not to stop and he felt the pressure build, thinking he might crack open, one hand digging into Kuroo’s thigh, the other desperately grasping at the towels that covered the table.

“Fuck!” His back arched and he came hard, cum splattering his stomach in opaque stripes.

Kuroo slowed his strokes and cum dribbled down the hand that was still clenched around Bokuto, who was panting and sensitive, his dick still pulsing with the aftershocks of climax.

Pushing himself up, Bokuto wiped away an errant line of cum on Kuroo’s cheekbone with his thumb. He cupped the other man’s face, brushing his lips against Kuroo’s, and pulled back to blow air behind his ear, satisfied when he saw goosebumps rise. He gave up teasing and kissed him, and it deepened slowly, the languid flicks of their tongues messy and jumbled. High with pleasure, Bokuto smiled against Kuroo’s lips.

Kuroo broke the kiss and brought his sticky hand to his mouth, sucking on one finger.

“Dude, what’re you—?” Bokuto spluttered, suddenly aware.

“Enjoying the moment,” Kuroo said as he wiped his hands on his pants. Then he was still, a half-smile tugging up one corner of his mouth.

Bokuto surrendered with a sigh and took Kuroo’s hand, pressing it against his chest, just over his heart. It was fluttering.

“It really hasn’t been still since you first touched me,” Bokuto admitted quietly.

Kuroo rolled his eyes and kissed him, whispering a haughty “I know” against Bokuto’s parted lips.

 

\---

 

“So, I heard you used to be a regular,” Kuroo said, a question lurking beneath the surface.

“Yeah, but...my old massage therapist was nothing like you.”

After some more messy kissing and groping, Bokuto had toweled off while Kuroo rinsed his hands a small sink in the back counter.

Kuroo had a strange look on his face. For the first time since Bokuto had met him, since he had entered the dark room, Kuroo’s sly, coquettish demeanor slipped into something more neutral.

They were sitting much as they had at the start of the session, Kuroo in the rolling chair and Bokuto sitting up on the table, but Bokuto was markedly more languid—and naked, with a towel spread over his lap. It wasn’t covering much.

Surprising himself, he wasn’t embarrassed and judging by Kuroo’s lazy posture, neither was he.

Kuroo was sitting in the chair backward, crossed arms thrown over the back. “I’m pretty special.” The trademark smirk was back.

“So, uh, are you charging me extra?” Bokuto wished he hadn’t asked, the offensiveness of the question not registering until he’d finished speaking. He was implying that the erotic half of the session was Kuroo’s attempt to clip more money.

“I don’t charge for those types of services, so you don’t have to worry.” Instead of a scowl or narrowed eyes, a lopsided grin replaced the smirk. “As a matter of fact, you don’t have to come out of pocket at all.”

Bokuto blurted, “What do you mean? I at least have to pay for the massage itself.”

Kuroo’s response was quick: “You can pay me back in another way.”

Bokuto braced himself, noting the wicked glint in Kuroo’s eyes in the dark, but he still wasn’t prepared for Kuroo’s idea of payment.

“Take me home with you tonight. Then, in the morning, cook me breakfast.”

“Dude, just because you got me off… That doesn’t mean I’m gonna bring you to my place.” _Yes, please come_.

“But you want me to.”

 _Damn it_.

“My place is a mess, you don’t have anything to change into, and I also have work in the morning.” The excuses fell from Bokuto’s lips like drops in a sudden rainstorm, heavy and emphatic. But like earlier, he was finding it difficult to maintain his self-control.

“I keep a spare set of clothes here,” Kuroo said, getting up and opening one of the cabinets. He dug around for a bit then pulled out a knapsack. Dangling it mischievously, he grinned at Bokuto, one suggestive eyebrow arched in a challenge. “Oil can get pretty messy.”

The earnest smile that danced on Kuroo’s lips won Bokuto over.

“Fine, but how do I know you’re not one of those really successful people who moonlights as a serial killer?” He didn’t say the rest out loud. _The kind who reels in his prey with a gorgeous smile and a touch here and there_.

Kuroo’s grin widened and he came back to the table. Bokuto’s legs were dangling off the sides, and he slipped between them, resting his arms on the table on either side of Bokuto’s hips. Bokuto hooked one ankle around the other and threw his arms around Kuroo’s shoulders. It seemed they were both touchy flirts.

“For all I know, you could be the serial killer,” Kuroo teased.

The feel of Kuroo’s breath on his lips sparked a faint blush on Bokuto’s cheeks. With feigned indignance he said, “My job’s pretty stressful, but I haven’t killed anyone.” After a thoughtful pause, he added, “Yet.”

Kuroo laughed again, his features relaxing into a soft openness that made Bokuto’s blush deepen and the heat return to his belly. Their closeness didn’t help.

Kuroo brought his lips to Bokuto’s, leaving an almost-negligible space between. Kissing the corner of Bokuto’s mouth, he murmured, “Get dressed before I take you right here,” and tugged him off the counter.

Bokuto leaned into Kuroo, determined to tease him back. He buried his face in Kuroo’s neck, and Kuroo tilted his head to the side to let him scatter kisses from where his neck met his shoulder to his jawline. He pulled away, and the towel fell, no longer pressed between them.

Stretching to test his newly loosened muscles, Bokuto was pleased to find that none of them protested. Kuroo let out a slow whistle, and Bokuto responded with his own smirk. He retrieved his clothes from the counter, not bothering with the extra shirt and pants he’d brought. Based on the flicker of desire he saw in Kuroo’s eyes, he suspected he’d be naked again soon anyway.


	4. Interlude

It was around 8 o’clock at night when Bokuto and Kuroo finally left the massage clinic. Oikawa and Iwaizumi were nowhere in sight, and the hall was dark.

Kuroo led Bokuto out a back door, locking up with a key that hung from his neck. “I keep odd hours,” he explained with a wink.

Bokuto nodded, wondering why Kuroo’s hours were “odd” and if that meant he usually finished this late. He was both eager and anxious; the thought of Kuroo being in his room scattered his thoughts enough that keeping quiet was the safest option.

Kuroo explained his special set-up with Oikawa. The young manager was willing to let Kuroo schedule appointments according to his availability, even after hours, as long as he exceeded the quota each therapist had to meet by the end of the month. Kuroo had gained popularity immediately, so he hadn’t had an issue with Oikawa’s condition in the two and a half months he’d been working there.

“The funny thing is, though,” he said as they walked to their cars, “is that I only see about four or five people every week. The difference is that I consistently have clients, where some of the other therapists have a week off in between busier weeks.”

“So you didn’t have anyone scheduled before Oikawa squeezed me in?” Bokuto had to agree with Oikawa’s earlier statement; he was lucky.

“I did, actually, and she’s a regular of mine. Something must have come up because she cancelled.”

“Oh.” They reached Bokuto’s car. “I’ll wait for you to pull around, then you can follow me.”

Kuroo saluted, then hooked one finger in the waist of Bokuto’s pants to draw him closer, stealing another kiss before slinking away to his car.

Bokuto grumbled as he unlocked his car and got in, and he mused about how easy it would be to pull off without waiting. But that would mean bailing on his “payment,” and he couldn’t help but think of how fucking good Kuroo’s hands and lips felt, how every touch lit his nerves like a spark setting kindling aflame. Even now, his heart thudded with anticipation. An impatient honk interrupted his increasingly lewd thoughts.

With a deep breath, he pulled out of the lot.

 

\---

 

They parked across the street and walked to the apartment building, Bokuto empty-handed save for his keys and Kuroo with his knapsack thrown over one shoulder. A light drizzle sped them along.

Kuroo bumped into Bokuto lightly. “Why so somber?”

Bokuto looked at him sideways, perplexed at Kuroo’s playful nonchalance. He silently prayed for the same kind of easy grace. “I’m not somber… I’m…” _I’m what, exactly?_

He left his sentence unfinished and led Kuroo up to his landing. The door creaked as he unlocked and pushed it open; a gust of cool air settled on his damp skin and clothes and he shivered. “Welcome to my icy fortress.”

“How fitting,” Kuroo remarked, rubbing his arms as he stepped inside.

Bokuto followed and shut the door. Normally he'd already be used to the frigid air, but the misty rain had left him feeling damp. “Sorry—I like it cold.”

As Bokuto flicked on the lights, Kuroo flopped onto the sofa, throwing one arm over his face.

“You wanna shower first?” Bokuto gulped. Thank the stars he was a tidy person—no need to worry about the bathroom being a wreck. He was leaning against the kitchen counter and, facing the other way, Kuroo couldn’t see the heat that rose to his cheeks for what felt like the thousandth time that night. Kuroo. In his shower. Naked.

“Sure, sure.” Kuroo stretched, a short groan escaping his lips. The flex of his muscles distracted Bokuto enough that he didn’t notice that Kuroo had turned to face him. He’d been caught staring—and that damn smirk was back on that damn face.

The roses in his cheeks in full bloom, Bokuto looked away, mumbling a “Follow me” as he walked down the short hall to the bathroom. Kuroo obliged, thankfully keeping his hands to himself.

Bokuto got a towel from the linen closet opposite the bathroom and tossed it to Kuroo. Before Kuroo disappeared behind the door he flashed Bokuto his teeth, the suggestive, wicked grin stealing his breath.

“How the fuck does he do that?” he muttered, running a hand through his hair as he returned to the kitchen. Not knowing what else to do, he turned on the water, the soft hiss not enough to drown out the enticing sound of the shower. He crossed his arms, determined to repress an inexpressible ache to join the man who’d waltzed into his life and set fire to everything.

He let himself think about the clinic—how Kuroo had been soft yet insistent, exploratory yet skillful, as if he’d given his hands blind control and they’d known what to do. He’d lost his earlier composure from the moment they’d crossed the street to get to his building, and his mortification rose as he remembered how vocal he’d been, so different from his usual quiet curses and suppressed groans.

And he’d never _kissed_ someone so much. Fucking was one thing, but kissing had always been something more intimate to Bokuto. He just couldn’t see himself kissing a person he didn’t love.

With a hookup, getting off was the one and only goal, no messy strings attached or unnecessary fluffy shit. And though it felt good, which was the goal, he still woke up with his heart throbbing with regret.

There was always something about each of the people he’d slept with that pissed him off. One was obnoxiously conceited, one chewed with their mouth open, one’s sense of humor was too offensive for him to genuinely laugh at their jokes. If he went home with them, there was always something that impelled him to leave after he was spent, before the sun could rise.

The ones who shared his bed knew to leave before he woke. The only traces they left behind were the filthy, dried stickiness of the sheets and a melancholy in his chest that lasted an entire day, sometimes more.

He was relieved—but puzzled—that Kuroo hadn’t made him feel that way. _Wasn’t he just another lay?_

The shower had been quiet and the water had been boiling for some time before Bokuto’s head finally cleared. The room was quiet after he took turned the water off. The clinking of mugs, the faint creak of the bathroom door open, and the soft pad of feet broke the silence.

Bokuto turned around to ask Kuroo what type of tea he’d like, but he froze, the words drying up on his parted lips. Kuroo was naked, the ridiculously small towel wrapped around his waist leaving barely anything to the imagination.

Kuroo stopped right in front of Bokuto, who wondered when he’d become asthmatic. Probably when he realized Kuroo smelled like his soap and shampoo, which also did things to his heart that he couldn’t really understand.

They watched each other wordlessly, and Kuroo brushed a thumb across Bokuto’s lips. “I forgot to bring my clothes in the bathroom,” he said, chuckling.

_Forgot. Sure._

Before Bokuto could respond, Kuroo tugged him forward, his lips damp and soft as they took Bokuto’s in a sweet, lingering kiss.

“I hope I left you some hot water,” Kuroo breathed.

Kuroo couldn’t possibly know that even if the water wasn’t hot, he’d be fine. The fire in Bokuto’s veins made him feel as if he’d never be cold again.


	5. Firsts

There weren’t many occasions that Bokuto could remember where he’d been at a complete loss for words. A shirtless Kuroo sitting on his bed made the top of the list.

“So you’re a tea connoisseur?” Kuroo asked, raising the mug of milk tea in a toast before bringing it to his lips. He'd let it cool, so he downed it in one shot. He set the empty mug on the bedside table.

“I—yeah, I guess.” Bokuto had regained some of his poise after he’d showered, with hot water then with cold. But Kuroo’s sinful black sweatpants had made his efforts futile—did he _have_ to wear them so that the waistband sat just below his hip bones?

Bokuto’s bed was tucked into the corner of his room, and he sat facing Kuroo with his back to the wall. “My favorite has to be Earl Grey, then any kind of green. I really have no preference, though. As long as it’s tea, I’m good. I think my mom bottle-fed it to me or something.”

Kuroo sat against the adjacent wall, his legs not quite close enough to tangle with Bokuto’s. His arms were crossed behind his head and he watched Bokuto with an amused expression as he talked.

“I’d drink coffee, but it puts me on edge. Tea is just... Perfect. Sorry, I’m babbling.”

“Babble away,” Kuroo said, waving him on. “I don’t think I could listen to someone talk about tea all day, but I’d make an exception for you.”

Bokuto laughed. “And I think I could listen to your flattery all day.”

They talked. About school and family and likes and things that annoyed them and best friends and everything else that came to mind.

Though they went to the same university, Kuroo was into math and science while Bokuto was a lit enthusiast and history buff. They’d never crossed paths.

Kuroo’s grandmother was a masseuse, so he’d been able to learn from her and get a license to practice before leaving for university, which he paid for himself. Bokuto’s parents had sent him to various boarding schools, where he picked up a predilection for reading nonfiction, which developed into his pursuit of a journalism career. His mom, who was half English, even encouraged him to study abroad and he'd spent a summer in London, where he picked up a taste for bergamot and English swears. 

They both loved grilled food and hated riding elevators. Bokuto was an adrenaline junkie who’d ride a roller coaster twice, three times in a row, while Kuroo preferred fishing at the beach.

Kuroo listened patiently as Bokuto talked about his volatility—how he’d be happy-go-lucky one minute, how it was like a black cloud passed over him the next, how it was the tiniest of things that set him off. He was stubborn to a fault; he put his all into the things he said he would do, but that meant he’d bypass everything else. He always kept his promises.

And Bokuto was a stickler for grammar, something Kuroo thought was one of the funniest things he’d ever heard—”You? A grammar nerd?”

Bokuto let Kuroo finish sniggering and in a mock-serious tone, with one hand fisted over his heart, said nothing offended him more than randomly capitalized words. “And it’s an insult to my honor when people use commas incorrectly.”

He really loved the timbre of Kuroo’s laughter.

“Dangling modifiers! The horror!” sent Kuroo into a coughing fit.

In return, Kuroo told his best (and most corny) animal puns and was pleased when Bokuto laughed so hard that he nearly folded in on himself and tears scored his cheeks.

To Bokuto’s surprise, Kuroo was insecure in front of crowds and found it easier to deal with people one-on-one. He sheepishly admitted that he’d been in love with his best friend for a while. “Kenma’s the chief of PR at Namaste. He got a job there before I did. He isn’t around a lot because he does a lot of work from home.”

“Did you ever tell him how you felt?” A lump had risen in Bokuto’s throat. He’d purposefully deflected, steering the conversation away from his own love life (or lack thereof).

“In a way,” Kuroo said. “But he focuses on what’s brightest and blocks out the shadows.”

His cryptic answer made it obvious that he was leaving some important details out, but Bokuto knew not to push.

After a pause, Kuroo added, “We’re still good friends, though.”

“My best friend’s my boss.” Bokuto didn’t mention how Akaashi’s looks sometimes caught him off-guard. He wasn’t the type to fall for his best friend, prettiness aside. That’s what he told himself, anyway (and it had worked, as far as he was concerned).

“Oh? Interesting.”

“He acts like he knows what’s best for me, and it pisses me off,” he grumbled. “I would never admit it to him, but he’s usually right.”

Kuroo snickered. “He cares.” He’d shifted closer, his legs brushing against Bokuto’s.

There were years behind them. Bokuto couldn’t and didn’t feel as if he’d known Kuroo for more than half a day, but Kuroo gave him a sense of wholeness he didn’t know he lacked until he’d seen that sly grin and felt those hands on his skin. He’d been missing something, and the press of Kuroo’s legs against his own told him he’d found it.

He wondered how souls could get to know each other so well in the span of a few hours. He wondered when they’d started kissing.

Kuroo had crawled between his legs and tilted his chin up, their lips the only other point of contact. Part of Bokuto enjoyed the chastity of the kiss, but another part clamored for the fierce tenderness of their earlier tryst. One hand found the soft hair at the back of Kuroo’s neck, and the other gently cupped Kuroo’s face, his thumb tracing his cheekbone.

Not pulling away, Kuroo’s hands slid up Bokuto’s shirt, and Bokuto gasped into his mouth. The sound encouraged Kuroo, and he moved to straddle him. The kiss intensified as Kuroo rocked his hips and pressed against him, his movements insistent, almost frenzied.

Bokuto felt feverish and drunk with lust—and something else. His hands charted the planes of Kuroo’s chest, and he felt the muscles bunch and release with each of his wild breaths. When they were touching like this, he couldn’t think.

“Kuroo.” Bokuto pushed Kuroo’s messy hair back to peer into both his nearly all-black eyes. “Do you want to—?”

Kuroo’s serious expression cut him off; he pulled Bokuto forward so that they switched positions—Bokuto was doing the straddling now and Kuroo was lying flat on the bed. Their breaths were heavy, uneven.

“What about you?” Kuroo asked, looking up at him.

Bokuto was confused. “What about me?”

“You didn’t say if you’ve ever been in love.”

_He doesn’t miss much._

“Oh… That.” Kuroo’s scrutiny made Bokuto feel as if he’d been caught stealing.

“Well?” Kuroo was still beneath Bokuto, his hands resting lightly on the other’s hips.

“There really isn’t much to talk about,” Bokuto said.

“Don’t play coy.” Kuroo’s voice was gentler now. “There must be a reason, then, why you didn’t bring it up.”

“Why would I bring that up now? I’m with you.” Bokuto felt his face get hot. “I don’t know.”

Up until this point, this was the most he’d opened up to someone, aside from Akaashi and maybe Tsukishima. But Kuroo was different from them. So why couldn’t he talk about it?

How was he supposed to explain that the one time he’d thought he’d been in love, he’d choked? That he hadn’t let himself connect with anyone else because he was afraid of the same failure? That when the solitude became unbearable, he’d try to fill the void with something that often made it worse instead of better, like some masochist? That he'd use false charm on someone with a shitty personality for half-assed, equally shitty sex that wasn’t even worth it in the morning, just to feel good for less than an hour? How was he supposed to put that into words that wouldn’t make Kuroo disgusted with him?

Bokuto was hot everywhere they touched: the inside of his thighs, the palms of his hands as they rested on Kuroo’s stomach. He sank down to leave kisses on Kuroo’s neck, dragging his lips along his jaw and stopping at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll tell you.”

And he did.

 

\---

 

“Bokuto, look at me.” Kuroo sat up, disentangling himself. When he had Bokuto’s attention, he asked, “Why didn’t you tell her?”

“I was just a client.” Bokuto was well aware of the irony. “And it’s in the past. I like to live in the present. It hurts a lot less,” he said, nudging Kuroo with his knee.

“It’s perfectly fine to feel vulnerable, you know.” Kuroo said into his ear. “I’m not going to disappear in the morning. You still owe me breakfast.”

Bokuto let out a small laugh, and he relaxed against Kuroo, who was rubbing lazy circles into his back. “Thanks for listening.”

“I was serious earlier. I think I could listen to you talk all day, about anything.”

Bokuto kissed him instead of answering.

Kuroo pulled back. “And I want to make you feel good.”

Another kiss. With tongue.

“You want more than just a fuck, don’t you?”

Bokuto’s lips were urgent. This felt more like throwing himself headlong into lust, but he couldn’t care, not when it also felt this real.

“So let me show you.”

Their kisses were hungry and searching. Their hands explored and pushed and stroked. Kuroo’s pants were pushed down to his thighs, and Bokuto’s shirt and pants were somewhere on the floor.

Kuroo leaned back against the headboard. He reached for his bag on the bedside table, almost knocking over the empty mug as he pulled out a bottle of oil.

“You’re awfully sure of yourself,” Bokuto murmured against his mouth. He reached down to tug Kuroo’s pants to his ankles, and then off.

Instead of responding, Kuroo squeezed his ass.

Bokuto groaned, acutely aware that he was nearly poking out of his boxers, a small damp spot visible in the dim moonlight that poured into the room. He was shaking with tension that sought release.

Kuroo was glad when Bokuto decided to strip down and lean forward to brush his lips across Kuroo’s abdomen, hissing when he felt a tongue glide across his stomach. Bokuto licked and sucked, coaxing marks to to the surface of his skin. Kuroo’s arousal tented his boxers and Bokuto took the waistband in his teeth, dragging the material down and off, adding them to the clothes-strewn floor.

As Bokuto climbed into his lap, Kuroo generously poured oil into his palm and on his chest; it trickled down to his stomach in glistening beads. Once more straddling Kuroo, Bokuto watched as Kuroo took his length in oiled hand and he reflexively pressed against him.

His fingers grasped at Kuroo’s back and Kuroo tongued his neck, etching a trail of red and purple blossoms into his shoulder. His strokes were slow and teasing; he palmed the tip over and over, bringing Bokuto so close that his nails dug into Kuroo’s back.

Kuroo released Bokuto, pulling him forward so that their chests touched, sticky with sweat and oil. He took Bokuto’s bottom lip with his teeth and dug his fingers into his hips, guiding him as he grinded slowly, arching his back to press as much of his body as he could against Bokuto. There was no friction, only the lewd, wet sounds of their bodies as they slid against each other.

The feel of Kuroo’s dick against his own made Bokuto’s head fuzzy, his breath spiking to a whine. His skin was scorched with lust-fever, and he knew the bright blush that colored Kuroo’s cheeks was mirrored in his own. He wrapped his hand around Kuroo, _feeling_ him for the first time.

The catch in Kuroo’s breath and the way his head tilted back against the wall encouraged Bokuto, his oily hand gliding up and down the shaft.

“Fuck, don’t stop,” Kuroo said, reaching for Bokuto to return the favor. He sat with his knees bent and spread, and Bokuto kneeled between his legs. They both tried to keep still as their hands found a steady, building rhythm.

Bokuto, who was already close, strained against the urge to roll his hips. He moaned loudly when Kuroo thumbed the slit, and his grip on Kuroo tightened.

“Talk to me,” Kuroo huffed into his cheek.

“Please,” Bokuto whimpered, rocking to gently fuck into Kuroo’s hand. He could see the sweat beading on Kuroo’s temple; he could feel Kuroo’s quickened pulse in his grip.

Kuroo’s mouth was hard on his own, the tangle of their tongues chaotic. They let each other go and Bokuto pushed forward, angling so that their cocks were touching, and gyrated his hips.

“You feel so so good, Kuroo,” Bokuto rumbled, and chased his words with a string of curses. The rhythmic wet sound of his skin on Kuroo’s was fucking obscene, the ebb and flow that meant he was quickly approaching orgasm driving him mad.

Taking both their lengths in hand, Kuroo said, a little breathlessly, “Mmm...I want you to beg for it."

Bokuto’s fingers dug into Kuroo’s shoulders as Kuroo stroked their dicks with one hand, tenderly cupping his face with the other.

“Feels—ah—so fucking good, please, I wanna come!” Bokuto's voice caught on the last syllable, which was swallowed by a low, drawn out whine.

“N-not yet,” Kuroo said, panting. He thumbed circles around the tip, and Bokuto bucked up, the sensation almost too much to bear. His slit oozed pre-cum and spilled over.

It took every bit of self-control Bokuto had not to come from Kuroo’s fast, rough downward strokes and infuriatingly slow upward caresses; he endured Kuroo’s teasing touch with a fist over his mouth, determined not to shout.

And like before, Kuroo brushed his hand aside. After he said, “Let me hear you,” Bokuto obliged, pitying his neighbors.

He’d never felt so fucking _sensitive_ and he didn’t know how they both lasted for over an hour before the dam finally broke. Kuroo had poured more oil and they were moving together, nails scratching and hands pulling hair, all moans and gasps and slick sounds, mouths skimming hungrily over flushed skin, legs shaking and motions jerky.

They talked as they fucked, but Bokuto wasn’t used to pillowtalk—not only that, but he also found incredibly difficult.

“Your eyes, they’re the first thing—ah, fuck!—the first thing I noticed about you.” Kuroo’s hands traveled from his shoulder blades and down his back to his waist, finally stopping at his ass.

Bokuto wondered how Kuroo expected him to form and articulate a coherent response when he was grabbing his ass like that, when their skin was glossy with oil and perspiration. “Mmph, you were just a tall, dark figure at first, but your hands…”

His sentence faded into a moan and he gave up, his mind as much a mess as his body was.

But in the jumbled mess of his mind, one thought was clear: This drawn-out passion was the best sex he’d ever had, without a single doubt. He’d never slowed things down, never been this painstakingly intimate. The thought of purposefully holding back had never even occurred to him. And somewhere in the back of his head he remembered that this was his first time going raw.

They nearly peaked together, but Bokuto jolted with climax first, his thrusts short and choppy; Kuroo groaned and his mouth found Bokuto’s in a warm, unhurried kiss as he found his release. They collapsed messily in a spent and tangled heap—out of breath and muscles dead with fatigue—amid the heady scent of sweat and sex and the spiciness of the oil.

“Okay… Wow,” Bokuto said into the crook of Kuroo’s neck. “I think some of my brain cells died because I can’t even tell you how fucking amazing that was.”

Kuroo lied spread-eagle on the bed, Bokuto sprawled on top of him. He ran his hands through Bokuto’s hair, soft and damp with sweat. “Impossible.”

“I couldn’t, no, I still can’t think.”

“Mmm... Neither can I.” Kuroo was quiet; his eyes were closed. “Bokuto, we should do that again.”

The “Yes” burned on Bokuto’s lips but, not wanting to seem too eager, he teased, “Can’t get enough of me?”

Kuroo’s eyes opened, piercing him with a glare. “No, I can’t, actually.”

Bokuto tried to push himself up onto his elbows, but their mess had partially dried, fusing their skin together. “It doesn’t really look like I’m going anywhere, does it?”

“I wouldn’t let you go anyway.”

 

\---

 

Bokuto woke up several times before morning broke, the solid rise and fall of Kuroo’s chest beneath his cheek a reassurance that he hadn’t disappeared.

They were dry and unsticky now, the sheets fresh, all evidence of their activities in the wash.

As he laced his fingers with Kuroo’s, the dreams pulled him back under.

 

\---

 

A brief moment of panic flared when Bokuto woke up to find himself cuddling with a pillow. His eyes glued shut with sleep, he blindly groped the empty sheets. No Kuroo. _Oh, well._

Kuroo stuck his head in the door frame of the bedroom, finding a sleep-warm Bokuto rubbing at his eyes furiously.

“Dude, you don’t have anything to make breakfast,” Kuroo pouted, holding up a half-empty bag of carrots.

“Hah? ‘M in college, rich boy.” Bokuto silently cursed himself for freaking out. “What time is it?”

“It’s almost one. Your tousled sleep-hair is incredibly endearing, by the way.”

The panic returned. Bokuto fumbled for his phone, heart sinking when he saw seven unread messages, all from Akaashi. He opened the conversation—and the panic settled.

_“dont forget to bring spare clothes, idiot.”_

_“its a late aptmnt. but dont be late for work.”_

_“screw that, come in the afternoon if you need to”_

_“how’s it going w Kuroo? (;”_

_“hello?”_

_“Bokuto Koutarou, are u…?”_

_“you can have the day off. get some rest, i’ll take care of everything”_

_Typical Keiji._ Bokuto typed out a reply and turned to Kuroo, who’d sat on the edge of the bed and watched him expectantly, carrots still in hand. He’d put some of Bokuto’s boxers on.

“No sane person eats breakfast after eleven o’clock, Kuroo.”

“Au contraire, mon cheri. Breakfast is an anytime food.” Kuroo wiggled his eyebrows.

Bokuto stretched, a sultry groan escaping his throat. “So what do you propose, since I agreed to your demands without consulting with my fridge and pantry first?”

“A little shopping date?”

Out of all his firsts with Kuroo, this one made him flush the deepest red.


	6. Of bruises and demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi there ^3^ this is the newest chapter! i apologize for taking so long to update...between school and writer's block, ive neglected this fic for too long. 
> 
> thank you for your patience <3 
> 
> im working hard to continue producing content on a more consistent basis, so barring anything major i should be able to update soon! as always, no promises >;p

Bokuto jerked up the zipper of his jacket, nearly uppercutting himself, and popped the collar to hide the reddish-purple bruises that splotched his skin like ink stains.

Hickeys were annoying—to Bokuto they served as reminders of what he’d rather forget—so they were normally out of the question. But he knew he gave Kuroo more license to do what he damn well pleased with his body than what was normal.

Perhaps because Kuroo treated him as if he were a blank canvas upon which he painted a masterpiece, each loving stroke of his hands and tongue an ode to the muses.

It was fucking hotter than hell outside and he had to wear a jacket _and_ pants.

“I’d make a good artist, don’t you think?” Kuroo echoed Bokuto’s thoughts with coquettish lilt, suddenly appearing in the mirror behind him.

“A fucking Michelangelo,” Bokuto muttered. “I can’t believe I had the decency to put them on your stomach, where no one would see them.”

"I don’t really care who sees, so you can put them anywhere you want, hun.” Kuroo pretended not to notice Bokuto’s reaction to his ridiculously cartoonish bedhead.

Bokuto masked his chuckle with a cough. He loved the way the words sounded on Kuroo’s lips, even if he looked like a mangled rooster. Or a sea urchin. More laughter rose in his chest and he cleared his throat.

“I could tell you were a rowdy sleeper, but I really had no idea it’d be that intense,” Kuroo said, half in retaliation for the other’s poorly smothered laughter, half in teasing adoration. “I’ve never slept with a cyclone.”

“That’s probably one of the things that chases people away.” Bokuto didn’t say that he prefered it that way. Usually.

“Well I like it,” Kuroo said, matter-of-fact. “And you’re a human furnace, which is definitely a perk, since your room is fucking freezing.”

Kuroo didn’t mention that he’d briefly woken up just in time to hear Bokuto sleep-moan his name after tossing a heavy arm across his chest.  

“Back to the point at hand—or, fuck, at _neck_ —I’m not walking around the market looking like some vampire’s pet.” Bokuto hadn’t seen any teeth marks in his reflection; he’d twisted his neck and back every which way to make sure there wasn’t any broken skin. “All I’m missing are actual bite wounds. Were you trying to eat me?”

Kuroo hugged him from behind, giving up on the spiky tufts of hair that refused to settle, and nibbled his ear. “I can confirm that you taste as good as you look, hot stuff. Ten stars—would definitely dine here again.”  
Bokuto batted him away halfheartedly, soft under the relentless, dorky sweet-talk. The way Kuroo was breathing into his ear, they’d never leave his flat.

“But I do want actual breakfast,” Kuroo continued. “Can’t remember the last time I’ve eaten, and I’m sure it’s been a while for you, too.”

“Mmm.”

Kuroo _wanted_ the marks visible, Bokuto thought. The demon.

Once Bokuto was satisfied that he’d concealed most of the damning evidence—there was no helping the wine-colored silhouettes that peeked over the edge of his collar and traced an erratic path to his jawline—he turned away from the mirrored door of his closet.

Kuroo tilted his head thoughtfully. “If I’d known you had this giant mirror, I would’ve told you to keep the lights on. But I suppose there’s always next time.”

“Next time?” Bokuto held his overeagerness in check, rocking back on his heels with his arms crossed over his chest, fists curled so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. “And what difference does a mirr—Oh.” _  
_

_Oh_.

Kuroo slow-blinked at his sudden realization, one corner of his mouth cresting in a smirk.

“I…” Bokuto was already falling for that decidedly feline, simpering grin. He felt a lightness in his chest but lingering doubt clung like the smell of cigarettes. How could he be so sure there’d be a next time? This was too easy. All of this had been too easy.

Kuroo had followed him to where he stood in the middle of the room and, as Bokuto had during the massage that precipitated whatever the fuck _this_ even was, he melted at his touch. Kuroo’s hand skirted the hem of his jacket and then his shirt and slid up in one fluid motion to rest just above his navel.  

Bokuto expected cold fingers, but Kuroo’s hand was warm and flush against his skin. Was it Kuroo’s nearness or his own fervor that ruddied his cheeks and kindled flames in his belly? Was it the masseur’s skill or his own weakness that had him almost literally wrapped around Kuroo’s little finger?

He’d been seduced, sure, but Kuroo knew just how to touch him, knew just how to make his body sing. And for all his self-possession and allure, he had a quirky sense of humor and he aimed to please, a combination that Bokuto found damningly irresistible. But how could he _not_ have any doubts?

And his _hands_. The sudden absence of which interrupted his thoughts.

“Let’s go,” Kuroo purred into his ear, raising gooseflesh on his neck and arms. “Gonna run to the bathroom real quick.”

“O-Okay.”

  
\---

As they were leaving the flat, Kuroo ran a wet hand through his hair in a final attempt to bring it to heel.

The half-second that Bokuto could see all of Kuroo’s face felt as if it were stretched across infinity. The black feathery strands fell back into place, unevenly wet. _Fuck_ , he was pretty.

Bokuto jerked the door closed and missed the key hole a few times.

In the car, Bokuto turned the radio on but left the volume low enough that they could still hear each other talk. He was shocked when Kuroo started singing, his voice surprisingly light. Bokuto watched out the corner of his eye, fascinated with how this dark, sultry figure had turned into a bubbly pop star.

He felt the pang of an unfamiliar desire in his chest. After the last note faded into an ad, he ventured, “Dude, can I, uh, ask you something?”

“Anything. Shoot.” Kuroo tilted his head to look at Bokuto, and if he noticed how nervous the other was, he didn’t show it.

“Uh, never mind.”

“Now I wanna know.”

“No, it’s nothing.”

“Bo.” Kuroo’s voice was so soft, almost a whisper.  

The intimacy of Kuroo’s tone made Bokuto’s heart sprint.  “I, uh, want to hold... Your hand? Please?” he blurted.  
Kuroo chuckled and reached for Bokuto’s unoccupied hand—he usually drove with only one, especially for shorter trips like this one—which rested on his thigh. He flipped it over and slid his fingertips up the middle of Bokuto’s palm slowly, finally weaving their fingers together.

Bokuto was reluctant to let go once he parked; he couldn’t explain the rightness he felt when they touched, but the feel of Kuroo’s skin on his own warmed him in all the places he’d always felt cold.  
So Bokuto didn’t mind that Kuroo found excuses to touch him, like he, too, had an insatiable craving for physical contact.

He didn’t mind that they were in public. Kuroo was subtle—but very persistent—his fingers brushing his waist as he reached for some eggs, his cheek grazing his shoulder as he bent to inspect and choose the vegetables, his knuckles knocking against his as they walked side by side.

Bokuto longed to erase the millimeters that separated his hand from Kuroo’s, and Kuroo seemed to sense it; he hooked his pinky with Bokuto’s, the smallest but most significant of touches.

Even his gaze was like a caress; each time Kuroo’s mischievous eyes settled on his, Bokuto became a flustered, stammering mess.

Kuroo wordlessly wove their fingers together as Bokuto pulled out of the parking lot.

They fell into an easy rhythm in the kitchen, like they’d been living together for years. Bokuto washed and chopped the vegetables and Kuroo, who was surprisingly domestic, took over omelette duty. Cooking with Kuroo was sort of like dancing, Bokuto thought. Their bodies brushed past each other feather-light as they prepared the food.

Lovemaking and too much time between meals had left Bokuto famished, so he finished first. Kuroo offered him the tastiest parts of his omelette, and Bokuto tacked on being fed to his list of intimate firsts, all of which, he noted, were with Kuroo.  

They collapsed against each other on the couch, bellies and hearts full, and watched the last twenty minutes of a show about big cats.

“If you were an animal, you’d be that black leopard,” Bokuto said into Kuroo’s cheek. Kuroo had wrapped his arm around him, their bodies pressed together, and Bokuto had to smother the flashes of desire that struck with each breath that tickled his temple.

“Oh?” Just then a golden-eyed white tiger appeared on screen. Kuroo pressed a kiss onto the top of his head. “And that, that majestic creature right there, is your spirit animal.”

Bokuto ended up with his head and shoulders in Kuroo’s lap.

“Hey,” Kuroo said, looking down at him. He’d been absently teasing his fingers through Bokuto’s hair, but now his hand was still. “I’d love to stay like this with you, but I have a client tonight.”

Bokuto pouted, a grumble rolling through his chest. The feel of Kuroo’s hand in his hair had lulled him, that content, sleepy feeling seeming to weigh down his muscles. The next to last thing he wanted to do was move, and the last thing he wanted to do was be alone.

More than anything, he was afraid that Kuroo would leave and he’d return to his own job, to sleeping with people who didn’t matter just to chase the monotony away. And here Kuroo was, telling him he had to leave.

“Bokuto.” Kuroo’s fingers resumed their dance. “If you couldn’t tell, I’m quite taken with you. I want to see you again.”

Bokuto didn’t know how Kuroo seemed to pick up on his unspoken fears. He wanted to say, “Just stay,” but the words that fell from his lips were, “I—I like you, too.”

He brought his hand to Kuroo’s cheek and Kuroo pressed his face into his palm. Bokuto pulled him down gently and Kuroo sank to meet him, whispering kisses along lip and jawline.

And their lips found each other countless times as Kuroo gathered his belongings; Kuroo paused sporadically to take Bokuto’s face in his hands and scatter tender kisses on his lips, forehead, nose, cheeks, chin, jaw, everywhere, as if he wanted to communicate to Bokuto that he wasn’t just passing through, wasn’t just a transient dream.

The sun was setting. Kuroo swiped Bokuto’s phone and saved his number, sending himself a text. “Let me know when you’re free,” he said with a wink.

The ghost of their departing kiss tingled on Bokuto’s lips as the door clicked shut.

  
\---

 

Kuroo wasn’t one to get too attached. He couldn’t, not with his line of work. He was seductive, sure. His charm was part of luring in repeat clients.

But he didn’t fuck them. Ever.

Until that golden-eyed, silver-haired tiger came and shattered his principle of maintaining distance, the one that allowed him to avoid tears. Apologies. Excuses. A different kind of mess that he hated to clean up.

And this was decidedly messy. The way his heart stuttered in response to Bokuto’s laugh or the way his eyes seemed to shimmer with joy lust amusement something _soft_ was messy.

He also had to worry about not fucking this up. This, and he wasn’t even sure what _this_ entailed, wasn’t something he was allowed to fuck up.

Kuroo didn’t really have an appointment.

He took the stairs two at a time, his coy composure discarded. He was… happy, but under the giddiness, he was afraid. He could play the alluring masseuse for just about anybody, but with Bokuto it wasn’t an act. For one so attuned to the music of touch, Kuroo had never beheld such an exquisite melody, which was as wild and free as birdsong. Bokuto’s skin _hummed_ under his fingers. And it fucking scared him.

He couldn’t help himself when it came to Bokuto. It was like his velvety skin rose to meet his fingertips, the sensation like what he imagined reaching into the sun would feel like.

Kuroo needed a few minutes to catch his breath. He needed to be told what to do. He needed to talk to Kenma.  
Kenma’s hours were even more irregular than Kuroo’s, and he was rarely at the office, so Kuroo texted him first. He was not in the mood for guessing games.

_“Ayyy Ken-kitty. You in tonight?”_

Kenma’s response was almost instantaneous. _“yes kuro i am. why?”_

_“Be there in a few.”_

_“ugh.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Hi :3 thank you so much for stopping by! This is my first fic, so please feel free to leave some feedback. I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> [tumblr](http://ohmykokuroo.tumblr.com) || [other tumblr](http://zeppellii.tumblr.com) || [twitter](https://twitter.com/lovedeluxxxe)


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